We walk the length of the yard and approach the house from the back. The door is cracked open and we step through it, entering a massive living room, though I hesitate to call it that because I can’t imagine people actually living here. I’ve wondered about the inside of this place so many times—and not just this place, in particular, but all these places. The houses students flock to in packs, themed parties and coordinating outfits. Greek letters hanging haphazard against the siding and music beating against the walls like the house itself is a living, breathing thing. I don’t know what I was imagining before—something grandiose, maybe; something to at least justify the exorbitant membership fees—but instead, the space is giant, square, and almost entirely unfurnished with the exception of one ripped-up leather couch, a few lopsided composite pictures, and a folding table in the center of it all. There are about a dozen boys huddled around it, red Solo cups knocked over and dripping foam onto the carpet, and I can feel the crunch of it beneath my shoes, a crust of fossilized fluids built up over the years. Even the air feels sticky, a concoction of sweat and smoke gripping my skin like cling wrap.
“SLOANE!”
A shorter boy in the middle with sleepy eyes and an exaggerated grin throws his arms up in way of greeting. He’s brunette and overly muscular, not bad looking but clearly overcompensating, and I look over to Sloane next, trying to study the way she acts around them: passive and uninterested. Like she couldn’t care less.
“Boys, this is Margot,” she says, ignoring him completely. “She’s taking the room next to Lucy’s.”
I stand still as their collective gaze turns in my direction and I can feel it slipping all over me: my face, my neck. My chest, where their eyes linger too long, then down the length of the skintight camisole I changed into while unpacking. I can practically see the cogs turning behind their bloodred eyes, trying to imagine how everything looks underneath.
“Hi,” I say, feeling my cheeks turn hot. The scream, I realize now, was coming from them—or, at least, one of them. A few of the boys are holding Ping-Pong balls between their fingers; that, and the dripping beer, tells me they were in the middle of some type of game.
“Looks like you’ve made yourself at home.”
I catch sight of Trevor in the back; he’s eyeing my spaghetti straps, smiling, and I can feel myself burn even hotter, my mind flashing back to the image of him shirtless in the living room without my permission.
“You’re a sophomore?” he asks, and I nod quietly. “I’ve never seen you around. You ever come to the house?”
“I’m sure she had better places to be,” Sloane says on my behalf.
Trevor grins and I feel suddenly indebted to her for making me sound more interesting than I actually am.
“You two wanna play?” he asks, holding up the Ping-Pong ball and twisting it in the air. Sloane looks at me, eyebrows raised, and this feels like another test. An on-the-spot assessment to see what kind of person I am: the kind to crack open a morning beer in a house full of strangers or the kind to politely decline and retreat back to my bedroom.
“You seem … I don’t know. Too nice.”
“Sure,” I say, forcing myself to head toward the table. Trying to exert the same indifference as Sloane, the same cool demeanor, but instead, I feel like I’m walking on stilts: awkward and rigid. My entire body put on display.
The game resumes with Sloane and me on one side of the table and Trevor and the other one, who is apparently named Lucas, on the other. I try to focus, try to block everything else out, but the sudden sting of irony is too sharp not to notice: this is the exact type of situation Eliza and I used to wrestle with. She was so much more outgoing than I was. Whenever we found ourselves approached by other people, invited to some house party or bonfire on the beach, she would say yes, always, flinging herself into any situation with the kind of calm confidence I could never grasp. The concept of not knowing anyone never dissuaded her; instead, she embraced it, reveling in the idea of sauntering into a circle of strangers, their eyes on her making her walk even taller. Talk even louder. I, on the other hand, had a hard time understanding what was supposed to be fun about the things she so desperately wanted to do: standing around, self-conscious, drinking warm beer somebody’s brother had been hiding in the bed of their truck. The pimple-pocked boys with their greasy hair and gangly arms, sour breath on our necks as they leaned in close. I hated having to act like I knew what I was doing in those situations. That I was somehow born with the knowledge of how to shotgun a beer, pack a bowl, tamp a pack of cigarettes like everyone else seemed to be. I still remember the first time I ever tried one: lighting the wrong end, burning my thumb on the flame and proceeding to suck the tobacco particles straight onto my tongue. The embarrassment as I sputtered and gagged, tried to smile through the smoke in my lungs and the tears in my eyes.